Classic Poem

‘M ORE Poets yet!’—I hear him say,
Arming his heavy hand to slay;—
 ‘Despite my skill and “swashing blow,”
 They seem to sprout where'er I go;—
I killed a host but yesterday!’

Slash on, O Hercules! You may.
Your task's, at best, a Hydra-fray;
 And though you cut, not less will grow
More Poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
 Who shall out-blot the morning glow?—
 Or stem the full heart's overflow?
Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
More Poets yet!